


An Eye for an Eye Leaves the Whole World Blind

by theDeadTree



Series: Warden Cousland [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening
Genre: Angst, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-25
Updated: 2017-03-12
Packaged: 2018-09-26 20:35:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9921212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theDeadTree/pseuds/theDeadTree
Summary: Eugene Cousland struggles to deal with the horrors of the Blight and tries to put his past behind him, even if it won't stay there. Meanwhile, Nathaniel Howe plans to confront the man who murdered his father.The antagonistic beginnings of an unlikely friendship.





	1. Chapter 1

A crumbling castle. A fearful city. No men or resources to defend it with. A broken-down economic disaster of an arling. Nobles that squabble with each other, smile to my face, and more than likely plot my death behind my back. When it comes to ruling, it’s honestly nothing new. Politics, nobility, the delicate balance of power, and the machinations of it all are part of an intricate dance that will draw you in weather you like it or not, no matter who you are or where you’re from. Might as well be good at it.

And there are people out there who actively _want_ the burden and responsibility of ruling. Like constantly having hounds at your back is something to be desired. Like power is anything more than a mindset, a simple idea that you have to do what someone tells you to just because they are who they are. Like that’s worth betraying everyone you ever knew and everything you ever were. Like there’s nothing wrong with becoming a monster chasing something that isn’t even there.

I wasn’t supposed to rule over anything – I was supposed to waste my life away in Highever, married to a woman I didn’t care about, with children I paid no attention to, and generally fulfilling my duties of being the idiot second son of the local teyrn. I wasn’t supposed to inherit anything other than what I already had – rank and a title, along with the respect that had taken my family generations to accumulate that I could throw right down the drain. I was a contingency plan, nothing more. I had no illusions about that.

How odd to find that I’ve actually made something of myself. There’s even a woman who’s pregnant with my child out there… somewhere. Carefully hidden where I’ll never find her, probably.

I sighed as my head hit the wall with a dull _thud._

 _Idiot,_ I cursed myself. _Why did you let her go?_

What else was I supposed to do? Forcibly bind her to me? I can only imagine how well _that_ would’ve worked out. Fact of the matter is, I was scared and desperate, we made a deal, and now I have to live with the consequences of that decision. Morrigan isn’t mine to control. She never was.

Still. I can’t help but wonder… was it real? Was _any_ of what we had actually _real;_ or just a clever ploy to get what she wanted out of me? I know she told me that wasn’t the case, but she could’ve lied. It wouldn’t be the first time. So how am I supposed to know? I knew how it was going to end long before she left. I’d known all along, I just hadn’t wanted to admit it. I was more content to lie to myself, to give myself at least the illusion of happiness as the Blight steadily ruined everything else.

I have to know if it was real.

Maybe, one day, I’ll find her. I’ll see her again. Just long enough to ask. Just long enough to meet the child I abandoned.

The child.

 _My_ child.

That’s never going to sound normal to me.

It’s so disconcerting to think I’m anyone’s father.

I pushed myself back from the wall, shaking my head and trying to focus. It doesn’t matter anymore. I’ve got more important things to think about than all the horror and bad decisions I’ve made over the past year. Rendon Howe left behind a mess and fate would have me be the one to clean it up.

I was a fool to think killing him was where it ended.

 _Well, well,_ the man’s horribly familiar voice whispered from some dark corner of my mind. _Bryce Cousland’s little boy; all grown up and still trying to fit into daddy’s armour._

A shiver went up my spine at the memory. I closed my eyes and pinched the bridge of my nose, trying to think of something, _anything,_ else.

Immediately, another memory sprang to mind – my father, covered in blood, clutching at a wound lest his guts spill out, unable to even bring himself to look at me as I fought and screamed and hurled abuse and desperately begged him not to do this to me as Duncan physically dragged me out of there.

“Stop it,” I hissed to no one in particular. “Stop, stop, _stop…”_

Don’t do this to yourself. Don’t think about it. You’re the sodding _Warden-Commander_ for Andraste’s sake, you can’t just break into pieces in the middle of the keep.

Was it only a year ago? It feels like a lifetime. And yet, also like no time at all.

Everything’s so distorted and nothing has made sense to me since that night in Highever. Then I was conscripted into the Wardens and Ostagar happened everything was just so insane it was impossible to keep track of any of it. Now the Blight’s over so quickly it barely feels like it happened at all. Sometimes I still wake up and expect to roll over and find Morrigan there. I’ll go to talk to Alistair or ask Wynne for help with something and I’ll wander aimlessly around the keep for several minutes before realising that they’re not here. That they haven’t been around for weeks. I should have a better grip on reality by now. Instead, life is a dream from which I can’t wake up.

Maybe that’s it. Maybe I’m back at the Circle, still in the grip of a sloth demon. Maybe I never got away, and the Blight raged on without me.

I know that’s not really true. Objectively, I _know_ that. I just don’t _feel_ like I know that.

It doesn’t matter, anyway. There’s a reason I came down here, and it’s not to wallow in self-pity.

With a heavy sigh, I pushed open the door that lead to the keep’s prison, too tired and stressed to really deal with this right now. Or anything. I’m not equipped to govern anything. I shouldn’t even be here. That fact was becoming increasingly obvious as I emerged into the prison itself. And immediately stopped dead the instant I saw who was leaning against the bars, looking bored out of his mind.

No.

_No._

Oh, you are _kidding_ me.

The Maker certainly does have a _grand_ sense of humour.

At this point, I don’t know why I expect anything less.

“Commander?” I heard someone call hesitantly, after I’d done nothing but stand stock still and silent in the doorway for an inordinate amount of time.

Immediately, my head snapped up and I fought to push everything to the side and pretend like I’m a normal, functioning human being for at least a few minutes.

That’s never going to happen.

But I can try, right?

“Leave us,” I barked, in no mood to be tolerable, or have anyone witness the inevitable emotional implosion I could feel was coming. “All of you. Now.”

There was a brief pause as no one took heed of me. I gritted my teeth and fought to rein in the part of me that wanted to scream at them until they fled from my presence.

I will not be a tyrant.

I will be the better man.

I will not become the monster Rendon Howe did.

 _Fool,_ his voice murmured snidely. _You already have._

I growled quietly and jerked my head slightly, as one guard tentatively stepped towards me, looking worried.

“Commander-”

 _“Out,”_ I snarled, with more aggression and authority than I even knew I had.

Two guards exchanged a worried glance with each other before they all filed out of the prison, all of them carefully avoiding my gaze. I didn’t move as they did, remaining rooted to the spot and struggling to keep track of the millions of thoughts that buzzed around my mind like angry wasps.

All the things I wanted to do and all the things I knew I should never do.

Why should I care what people think anymore? Whose standards am I trying to live up to? Everyone who ever meant anything to me is gone.

I inhaled deeply.

Breathe.

Just breathe.

Focus on breathing.

Slowly, cautiously, I took a couple of steps towards the one single occupied cell. Sensing my approach, the prisoner himself twisted around just enough to see me, before scrambling to his feet and giving me one of the harshest glares I’d ever had the luck to be on the receiving end of.

“Well, if it isn’t the great hero, conqueror of the Blight and vanquisher of evil,” he began in a mocking tone. “Aren’t you supposed to be ten feet tall? With lightning bolts shooting out of your eyes?”

A year ago, I’d have flinched at his tone. I’d have shrunk back like a scared animal, fled to some corner where I felt safe and I’d have spent the next several days quietly asking people what I’d done wrong to possibly anger someone so. Because despite how much I told myself, told everyone, that I didn’t care what anyone thought of me, I did. I always had. I couldn’t rid myself of that.

Shows how much I’ve changed since then.

Instead, I folded my arms and stared back at him, unflinchingly. “Drop the act, Nathaniel. Feigned sarcastic surprise isn’t a good look on you.”

Part of me wanted to ask why he’s here, why he came crawling back from the Free Marches. I mean, I could deduce the reason fairly easily just from the fact that he’s here, glaring at me like I’m the worst person in the world. But part of me still wanted to ask.

Seems no matter how hard I try to escape my past, it’ll always come back to bite me.

For once, I wish I could just be the Warden, and dedicate myself to fighting the Blight and darkspawn forever, and leave the rest of it behind. I wish Eugene Cousland, the cocky noble with overly romanticised dreams of war and glory, would just stay dead. That the part of me that’s still him would lay down and accept fate for once.

That’s who Nathaniel sees when he looks at me, no doubt. The little boy who’d trail after both him and Fergus whenever I had the strength to, begging them to show me how to fight, even though I was too young and, more often than not, plagued by illness. He’d already been sent off to squire in the Free Marches by the time I finally recovered, so of course that little boy would be all he sees.

That little boy who now stands in front of him, in his family’s old estate, having murdered his father.

So, no. I’m not going to pretend I don’t know why he’s come. But I’m not going to stand here and pretend I regret it, either. Somehow my family getting justice matters more to me than a Howe’s precious ego. My lip automatically curled at the thought. A Howe’s delicate ego is _exactly_ why everything happened in the first place.

“Somehow, I just thought my father’s _murderer_ would be more… ah, _impressive,”_ he taunted scathingly, putting extra emphasis on the word _murderer._

I didn’t move. Didn’t make any obvious signs that his words affected me, or that I’d even heard them. My eyes fixated on the floor, and for such a long time, I didn’t look up. There was nothing for me to say. There was nothing for me to deny. I did murder his father. I was the reason he was here; his family having fallen so low. These were all facts. Well recorded instances in the past year. Maybe if I wasn’t a Grey Warden, if there hadn’t been a Blight on, if Howe’s betrayal of my family wasn’t already well known, I might’ve paid a higher penance for such a high profile killing than a few days imprisoned in Fort Drakon.

I glanced back up at him, eyebrows raised slightly.

Fine. If that’s how he wants to play it.

“And I thought that _my_ father’s murderer was a good man,” I murmured, staring unwaveringly at his face. “I thought I knew him. I thought he was a _friend.”_

At my words, the memory surfaced once more.

_Your parents died on their knees, your brother’s corpse rots at Ostagar, and his brat was burned on a scrap heap along with his Antivan whore of a wife. And what’s left? A fool husk of a son likely to end his days under a rock in the Deep Roads. Even the Wardens are gone. You’re the last of nothing. This is pointless. You’ve lost._

I closed my eyes and tried to breathe.

He’s dead. He died, weeks ago. We fought and I stabbed him and he died. One more corpse to add to the piles of corpses I’ve left behind.

And yet he haunts me still.

_It would appear that you’ve made something of yourself after all. Your father would be proud._

A shiver went up my spine. Out of everything he said, all the twisted things that came out of his mouth, that’s what hurts the most. Just that one simple observation.

_Your father would be proud._

I hate it. I hate those words. I hate that he’s corrupted even the memory of my father for me. Once upon a time, I’d have been overjoyed to hear someone say that to me. Part of me still wants to feel that way. I want it to be true. I want to believe it.

But he said it.

And now that’s all I can think about – the fact that he said it, and I desperately want him to be _right._

Bile welled up in my throat at the thought, and I struggled to force it back down.

“Your family was going to sell Ferelden out to the Orlesians,” Nathaniel spat back at me, drawing me back into reality.

“And you _believed_ that?”

His lip curled. “I don’t know. My father never got to tell me what happened. A _Grey Warden_ stole into his estate and assassinated him.”

I let out a shout of bitter laughter. “I stabbed him something like twenty times. Not sure _assassination_ is the right word. Bit too bloody and loud to qualify.”

 _That_ was low.

In that moment, I didn’t care. I wanted to hurt him. I wanted him to suffer just half as much as I had. I wanted him to know everything. Right down to every single excruciating detail. I wanted him to live with the knowledge that his father died a traitor and a coward, a miserable little snake, clawing desperately at power and influence he couldn’t handle and had done nothing to deserve.

“You bastard!” he screamed furiously, marching to the cell door and beating his fists upon it. “My family lost _everything_ because of you!”

I folded my arms and leaned against the wall. “That’s true. Can’t _imagine_ what that’s like. Losing everything.”

For so long, I just watched him, cold and indifferent while he stared right back at me, eyes bulging as he fought to contain his rage. I didn’t care. I wanted to hurt him. I wanted him to know just how a big a mistake he’d made by coming here, by complaining and somehow expecting me to sympathise. He doesn’t know what pain is. He has no damn idea what _real_ suffering feels like.

Howes never do. They scheme and claw at power that doesn’t belong to them. That has never changed. Maybe it never will. There are generations of well recorded antagonistic behaviour between our families. My father thought he’d managed to put an end to that. Turns out that was just wishful thinking and nothing about our families will change. _Howes_ don’t change. They all go bad sooner or later. I’m not idealistic enough to fool myself into thinking it ends here.

Because it won’t.

It never does.

After what felt like a small eternity, Nathaniel managed to compose himself enough to find words once again.

“I came here…” he began haltingly, only for his expression to harden and for his eyes to glance back to mine. “I thought I was going to kill you. To lay a trap for you.”

“And look how well that turned out.”

He shot me a dangerous look, before his expression turned to one of sorrow. “But then, I realised I just wanted to reclaim some of my family’s things. It’s all I have left.”

“If _only_ your father had managed to refrain from committing treason and mass murder,” I sighed wistfully. “And he couldn’t even get _that_ right.”

 _You’re being unfair,_ the part of me that likes to pretend it’s my father told me sadly. _He had nothing to do with what happened._

I let out a quiet, thoroughly irritated sigh and pinched the bridge of my nose, trying to focus. Trying to ignore the fact that I could so clearly imagine my father’s ghost leaning against the wall with his arms folded and looking quietly disapproving that he may as well have actually _been_ there.

He’s not there.

He’s not real.

Just a by-product of a vivid imagination and a desperation for things to be different. No more real than the spectres that haunted the temple up in the mountains, and the ashes housed within it.

I don’t need him to be here to know what my father would want me to do. He’d want me to let go. To stop blaming people. To let the past be in the past. To accept that they’re all dead and gone, to stop pining, and move on with my life.

I tried to move on. I tried to be my own person. I tried so _damn hard_ to do that. It never gets me anywhere.

Well. It got me _here._ Warden-Commander at nineteen, exchanging barbs with someone I used to know who now freely admits to wanting to kill me. Can’t say that’s what I expected or even wanted out of life.

Maybe I deserve it.

In any case, I’m tired of waiting around for other people to act.

Wordlessly, I approached the bars, pulling out a dagger as I did so. Nathaniel watched me warily, though he didn’t move. Maybe he was too confused at what I was doing. I reached through the bars, dagger in hand, turning the blade towards myself.

“So do it,” I snarled, pressing the dagger’s hilt into his hands, the tip of the blade never wavering from my sternum.

He just stared at me like I was completely insane.

Maybe I was.

I couldn’t tell anymore.

Everyone I cared about is gone – there’s no point in being afraid to die. Not anymore. I’m a Grey Warden, I don’t get that luxury. I’ve already survived what should have been my final day. Twice, even.

I didn’t make it out Highever alive. Not really. The person I used to be – the young noble, the pampered, idiot Cousland boy – died that night, along with his family. There’s nothing left of that identity. Me, here, this; it’s nothing. Just remnants of a life long since lost. I don’t exist anymore, not really. Eugene Cousland died the moment he underwent the Joining. All I am, all I’ve ever _been,_ is fragments. Shattered pieces of someone who died a long time ago.

He wants to kill me?

He’s too damn _late._

“Your father had his men try to kill me while I slept,” I told him bitterly, still clasping his hands around the dagger, unable to stop the memories from flooding into the forefront of my mind now. “He had my sister-in-law and my nephew, a _six-year-old boy,_ butchered. He slaughtered _everyone_ who remained in the castle. He called my father _friend,_ even as he stabbed him in the back. _That’s_ who you’re avenging, Nathaniel. That’s your precious family legacy.”

He didn’t move.

For so long, neither of us did.

I don’t know what I expected. I don’t know what I thought would happen. I don’t know how or why I thought he’d believe a single word I said. But he didn’t move. So maybe part of him does.

Or maybe he’s just too much a damn _coward_ to actually go through with what he said.

I pulled away from the bars, letting the dagger fall from his limp hands and clatter uselessly on the floor. All that posturing, and he can’t even back it up. I don’t know why I expected anything else.

I burst out laughing. I couldn’t help it. It was just _too sad._

“Oh _Maker,”_ I said with a sigh, wiping away imaginary tears of laughter while still chuckling to myself. “I can’t deal with this. I can’t get past how pathetic you are.”

He glared up at me, angry and confused. “You-”

“What have you actually _done,_ Nathaniel? Came back to Ferelden – too late to save your father, too late to do _anything_ helpful. Had a good whine because nothing was the way you remembered. Attempted a break in. Got caught in what used to be your own family’s estate, like a complete rank _amateur._ Now look at you – locked up in a cell like a common criminal and _all_ you can do in response is complain how _life isn’t fair_ and you deserve more.”

Unbidden, Rendon Howe’s last words surfaced, echoing endlessly throughout my mind.

 _Maker spit on you,_ he’d rasped as he coughed and gasped and choked on his own blood. _I… deserved… more._

“Turns out, life _isn’t_ fair, and nobody owes you shit,” I told him scathingly. “Kill me if you like; it won’t bring your father back.”

He let out a harsh growl at that. “Whatever my father did shouldn’t harm my whole family! Do you realise the Howes are pariahs now? Those of us _left?”_

You’re kidding me.

Tell me he’s kidding.

After everything that’s happened, everything his father did to my family – to my parents, to my brother, _to me_ – he’s _still_ sitting there, blaming me? What does he _want_ from me? An _apology?_

 _“Innocent blood_ runs through Highever in _rivers,”_ I had to stop myself from outright screaming at him, shaking with anger now. “And you want me to feel _sorry_ for you?”

There was a moment where he pulled back a step or two like I’d burned him with my question. And in that single moment, something about him, his anger, his frustration, I don’t know, seemed to melt away.

“The way I see it…” he began quietly, “the darkspawn are a menace. If it weren’t for the Blight, maybe my father wouldn’t have… done what he did.”

“So you’re pinning it on the Blight, is that it?” I laughed. “Can’t ever speak ill of the old man, can you?”

Why am I surprised? He never has. That won’t change.

“I’m not going to argue with you,” I snarled, turning back towards the door. “Stay there and _rot,_ for all I care.”

And I slammed the door behind me.

For a moment, I just stood there, rooted to the spot, chest heaving as I struggled to breathe – always sucking down air and never quite feeling like I was getting enough. Memories flooded into my mind now; memories of happier, simpler times. Memories of exchanging a mildly disgusted look with Delilah when our fathers brought up the idea of matching us together right in front of us. Memories of Nathaniel and Fergus sparring in the training yard as I watched from the sidelines, seething with envy. Memories of hurling a book at Thomas’ head when he looked around the library for two seconds and before loudly proclaiming that anyone who stayed there for any real amount of time was wasting their life and must have literally nothing better to do. Memories of the few times I’d been able to come here, to Amaranthine, with the rest of my family.

We were all just kids back then. Politics, family rivalries, the subtle machinations that come with having even a modicum of power; none of us cared a fig for it. Not back then. When it was all so innocent. Back in the days when I’d look at Rendon Howe and I’d see a respected authority figure who was something like an uncle to me rather than a vicious, traitorous bastard who stabbed my father in the back.

I made my way down the hall, my hand trailing over the stonework. It’s all so familiar, in that cruellest of ways.

I didn’t want to be Warden-Commander. I didn’t want to take over Amaranthine. I didn’t want any of this to happen. I wanted to disappear, to vanish where no one would ever find me. I still do. I want to find Morrigan. I want to know my child. I want to be more than just a story to them. I want to make sure there’s at least one good thing I’ve added to this world, rather than a rampaging, snarling monstrosity that I never should have agreed to conceiving.

I don’t want to do this.

I don’t want to _be_ here.

Fergus did say Highever will always be home, but I can’t go back there. Not after- …no. I can’t. I can’t confront those ghosts. Not now. Maybe not ever.

But those ghosts just won’t leave me alone.

 _Nathaniel is not his father,_ my father’s voice told me gently, from the same dark corner of my mind that keeps dredging up memories best left forgotten. _He doesn’t deserve to pay for sins that were never his._

I gritted my teeth angrily. Are we just going to _ignore_ the part where he admitted to plotting to _assassinate_ me? How am I supposed to leave something that behind?

…and I suppose Zevran just, what, offered a cup of tea when we met? You remember Zevran? Antivan elf? One of your closest friends? Hired to assassinate you? _Your first interaction was literally him trying to assassinate you?_

It was the Blight. I needed help. I was desperate.

 _You still are,_ came the reply. _And you’re letting someone who could help die for no reason._

I could almost see him now – standing there, glancing over me, looking sad. Looking at me and the man I’ve ultimately become and blaming himself for it. Because he never wanted me to be here. He never wanted me to go to war – to be cold and ruthless and pragmatic and all the other things I’ve had to be because of the civil war and the Blight.

_Your father would be proud._

Would he, though? Would he be proud to see me here, like this, after everything I’ve been through, everything I’ve _done?_ This isn’t what he wanted for me. Before he died, before I fled Highever, he wouldn’t even _look_ at me. Maybe that’s because he knew. Maybe he knew what being a Warden would ultimately do to me.

Where I’ve been… what I’ve done… there’s no coming back from that. I’m never going to be the person I used to be. I can never go back. A year ago, I’d never even considered the possibility of actually killing a man; now I’ve murdered so many people I’ve long since lost count. Sometimes I feel like I’ve left more carnage in my wake than the Blight I was fighting to stop. I’ve become everything I’ve never wanted to be, all for stopping the Blight.

Which makes me a successful Grey Warden. Just at the cost of my humanity.

I’m falling into an abyss with nothing to pull me back. And my father knew it.

 _You are not Rendon Howe,_ I could imagine him telling me. _You do have a choice. You don’t have to become the monster he did. You don’t have to condemn an innocent man for a crime that was not his._

Be the better man.

I want to.

Maker, I want to forgive and forget _so badly,_ but I can’t. I _can’t._ Every time I even think about it, I just see what I’ve always seen – Highever a burning wreck as people ran screaming through the streets, my father bleeding out on the ground, my mother’s tears as she begged me to escape without her, Gilmore’s quiet acceptance of his fate as he told me to leave, Nan dead and bloodied on the kitchen floor, Oriana’s lifeless corpse tossed carelessly aside as she was cut down for trying desperately to protect her son… Oren, a _six-year-old boy,_ discarded in a pool of his own blood.

Those memories will never leave me. I’ll never be free of them. Maybe the man responsible is dead, but what did that change, in the end? All I’ve really done is run out of people to blame. I still have all this anger and frustration, and nothing and no one to vent it on.

No one ever said forgiveness would be so damn hard.

I groaned loudly, and made my way over to the nearest guard I could see.

“Get me Seneschal Varel,” I said sharply, before realising how harsh that sounded. “Please.”

The guard nodded curtly and rushed off to find Varel, not bothering to ask any questions.

I’m going to hate myself for this later.

I haven’t even made a decision yet and already I know how much I’m going to regret it. At this point, it’s just a matter of what I’ll regret more. Right now, I honestly don’t know the answer.

“Commander,” Varel called as he approached, led by the guard, who quickly skirted off back to his normal duties now that my request had been fulfilled.

I jerked my head back in the direction of the prison, before turning around and heading that way myself, as Varel quickly fell into step next to me.

“Nathaniel Howe,” I stated flatly when I decided I owed him some kind of explanation, “is locked in the prison.”

Varel glanced at me warily, but didn’t slow.

“Did you know about this?” I asked, trying extremely hard to keep my tone low and civil.

“I knew we had a prisoner,” he answered curtly. “Not the finer points of his identity.”

“Someone _had_ to have known. No one bothered to point it out?”

“Not to me, Commander.”

There was a silence.

An excruciatingly long silence that seemed to last for an eternity, even though it couldn’t have been more than a few seconds.

“What would you do?” I asked quietly, pausing at the prison door. “In my position?”

For what felt like an eternity, Varel simply watched me, carefully considering his answer to my question.

“It isn’t my place to say, Commander,” he said plainly. “You know the man far better than I do.”

I shook my head and sighed. “I thought I did. But then, I thought I knew his father, too. I’m not about to make the same mistake my father did.”

A mistake I’m sure my father would make time and again, because he always believed in people. In redemption. In forgiveness. In mercy. In doing the right thing by everyone, no matter the cost to yourself. He always had to be the self-sacrificing hero. And he had to instil those values into me and Fergus as well. If he knew about even half of what I’ve done…

He knew. He knew, back then, on the last day, what kind of a life I was being forced into. There was nothing left of himself to sacrifice, so instead he sacrificed me. My life. My humanity. My choices. My free will. He couldn’t look at me as I fought and argued and screamed because he couldn’t bear to be reminded of that choice.

Nathaniel is not his father.

It’s only now I realise that I’m not mine, either.

“Back again?” Nathaniel bit icily in my direction as I pushed open the door and entered the prison once again. “That was quick.”

I glanced questioningly at Varel, like I somehow thought he’d make a decision for me. He just stared back patiently, unmoving as he waited for orders. That’s what this is now. I’m actually in charge. I can’t hide behind someone else and let them do everything for me. I’m the one people rely on. I’m the one who has to make the decisions and live with the consequences.

I didn’t want to rule. Not Highever, and certainly not Amaranthine. By all rights, the man locked in the cell in front of me should’ve taken over the arling in his father’s place. If things had been different, he would have. Eventually. He’d been so close to ending up as my brother-in-law.

Now, I just want him to suffer even half as much as I have.

I want him to know what I was put through.

“I’m invoking the Right of Conscription.”

The instant the words were out of my mouth, I was back in Highever for a moment, kneeling next to my dying father and begging him not to give up on everything as Duncan stood over me.

_I hereby invoke the Right of Conscription and recruit you into the Grey Wardens, despite your objection._

Nathaniel’s eyes went wide with disbelief. “You _what?”_

I stared him down. Just as Duncan had done to me when I’d protested my own conscription. I had to wonder if it felt half as satisfying for him back then as it did for me, right now. I wonder if Nathaniel feels half the rage and anguish I felt back when I was in his place; backed into a corner, with joining the Wardens the only way out. Having the element of choice ripped away. I want him to know what that feels like.

He let out an incomprehensible growl, until he finally managed to find words once again.

“No. _No!_ Hang me, first!”

“Did I _say_ I was giving you a choice?” I snapped back at him. “What part of _right of conscription_ did you fail to understand?”

“You like having Grey Wardens who want you dead?”

“I’ll risk it,” I told him sweetly, my tone telling him in no uncertain terms that I didn’t consider him enough of a threat to pose any real danger to me or my wellbeing. If I can survive the attack on Highever, Ostagar, darkspawn, demons, abominations, cultists, Antivan Crows, witches that turn into high dragons – I’m never getting over that – an _Archdemon,_ and Maker only knows what else, I’m more than capable of surviving whatever poorly thought out assassination attempt of Nathaniel Howe’s.

His lip curled. “I don’t know if this is a vote of confidence or a punishment.”

We both remained where we were, angrily staring each other down, daring the other to blink. It was a tense standoff that didn’t end until Varel awkwardly cleared his throat.

“An… _interesting_ decision, Commander,” he told me haltingly, before pulling out a set of keys and hastily unlocking Nathaniel’s cell door. “Come with me, ser. Let’s see if you survive the Joining.”

There was a moment as nobody moved. Nathaniel glared at me and I glared back and Varel just glanced between us questioningly every so often. Finally, I moved, just enough to give Varel a curt nod. He let out a loud sigh and went on ahead as Nathaniel hung back, staring at me with renewed hatred and loathing.

“Are you _insane?”_ he demanded venomously.

I smiled grimly. “You want to do right by your family and redeem your honour? This is where you start.”

“You’re enjoying this.”

“Don’t doubt it,” I replied brightly, gesturing towards the door.

He shot me one final glare before exiting, with me trailing behind him. Varel stood in the hall, waiting patiently for us, his eyes never leaving Nathaniel. Obviously, he didn’t trust him not to run. I had no such worries. Nathaniel won’t run. He’s too damn proud.

“Welcome to the Grey Wardens, Nathaniel Howe,” I told him cheerfully, clapping him on the back and walking away.


	2. Chapter 2

Delilah hadn’t changed much from the last time I saw her, something like two years ago now. Her hair had been cropped short, swept back carefully behind her ears to stop it from getting in her face, humming contentedly to herself as she worked at scrubbing a mass of sopping wet clothes on a washboard. She’d clearly gone to some lengths to distance herself from the young noblewoman I used to know, but it was still there, in shades. An upbringing like that isn’t easy to hide under some dirt, a simple haircut, and raggedy clothes. Even if you manage to get the scars and callouses expected of a commoner, a superior education and etiquette lessons don’t just go away. I should know. My family was slaughtered _and_ I experienced a Blight first hand and I _still_ can’t pass as anything less than nobility. Too well spoken for a peasant and too bad at taking orders for a soldier.

Old habits die hard, I guess.

She was clearly trying to hide from _something,_ I just didn’t know what, exactly. The past. Her family. Me. Maybe all those things. Maybe more. In her place, I couldn’t say I wouldn’t have tried to do the same.

Quickly, I looked away, pulling out one of my dirks and suddenly becoming incredibly interested in it, tilting it slightly and engrossed in watching the way the light glinted off the blade. Beside me, Nathaniel stopped and stared at me incredulously, apparently having completely missed the fact that his sister was just there.

Too caught up in his own world, I suppose. He’s been like that since he went through the Joining. And survived, against all odds. I can’t tell if I’m disappointed or pleased with that development. On one hand, had he died, I wouldn’t have to deal with having a Howe in the keep and I could’ve absolved myself of all guilt over his death. On the other, he’s a competent combatant at my disposal. So I guess the part of me that understands that I’m the Warden-Commander is happy with that. The part of me that’s still a Cousland isn’t nearly so lenient.

 _Get over it,_ I told myself fiercely. _You made your decision. He’s a Warden now. Deal with it._

I’ve seen so many people fall to the Joining. Good people. Strong people. Mhairi was just the latest in a long line of people who deserved better. Is it so inconceivable for me to think it would claim Nathaniel as well? How was I supposed to know he’d miraculously turn out to be strong enough to take it? Truth be told, I never expected to survive it myself – I was too ill, too fragile, too damn weak to do anything, to be anything more than an academic and an opportunistic, cheating bastard with a small plethora of knives hidden everywhere anyone would care to look on my person and a bow – the fact that I did never ceases to surprise me. The one time I use it, foolishly thinking it’ll be the death sentence it usually is, and he goes and survives.

And now I’m a Cousland that outranks a Howe.

Because that _never_ ends badly.

I’m making all the same mistakes my father did and I’m so _acutely_ aware of it.

A chill went up my spine as I saw Rendon Howe smirking at me so clearly in my mind. Smirking at my choices. Smirking because he knows that no matter how much I try to avoid it, it seems I’ll fall into the age-old trap of letting history repeat itself. Smirking because I’m too much like my father and the parts of me that aren’t are dangerous and volatile; too much like the man who murdered him. Smirking because it doesn’t matter that he’s dead. He’s in my head and means he’s won one final victory over me.

Anxiously, I glanced back at Delilah, who hadn’t moved, still focused entirely on her task, clearly oblivious to the rest of the world, then back at Nathaniel, who was watching me like he was concerned I was about to either break into pieces in front of him or go completely and violently insane.

At this point, either is possible.

“Eugene,” he called my name exasperatedly, after I hadn’t moved for what felt like a small eternity.

For a moment, I tried not to answer. I tried to remind myself why I’d come into Amaranthine – something which now escaped me, but it certainly hadn’t been to find Delilah. If that had been the objective, I’d know. I’d remember. And all the while, Nathaniel watched me expectantly, patiently waiting for an answer I wasn’t sure I was able to give.

“Your sister,” I muttered after a long, awkward pause.

He pulled back, blinking several times in confusion. “What about her?”

“She’s right over there,” I pointed out, nodding in Delilah’s direction. “That _is_ her, isn’t it?”

I don’t know why I’m asking. I may not have seen Delilah in two years – but Nathaniel hasn’t seen her in at least eight. If anything, he’s _less_ likely to recognise her than me.

He stiffened at my words, immediately looking over to where I’d indicated, eyes darting desperately over the houses that were crowded together on the street. Then, he pushed past me, quickly breaking into a run – or as much of a run one can manage while trying to cross a busy street – weaving his way around the crowd and hastily apologising to everyone he accidentally shoved. With a small, thoroughly exhausted sigh, I followed him, carefully ignoring the looks and faint whispers of _the Warden-Commander_ that followed me.

Note to self; stop wearing the full Warden regalia in public unless absolutely necessary.

 _But you’re the Warden-Commander,_ I could imagine someone reminding me, clicking their tongue disapprovingly as they did so. _Take pride in what you are._

It all sounds so easy when you think about it like that. Take pride in what you are. Take pride in the fact that I was dragged kicking and screaming out of Highever, conscripted into a group I wanted nothing to do with. Because it’s your duty, Eugene. Because the Blight is coming, Eugene. Because Duncan won’t help you get out if you don’t.

He was supposed to get my mother out, too. He broke that promise almost the second he made it.

And somehow, I still managed to get conscripted.

 _It’s my duty to kill Howe!_ I’d retorted at the time. _Not join some Blight-obsessed murder cult!_

And yet.

Here I am.

Working for the Blight-obsessed murder cult, having taken over the position of the man who dragged me into it to start with.

It suddenly occurred to me that I never saw Duncan in the uniform. Not in Highever, and not at Ostagar. So I have no idea why everyone’s so insistent I wear it. Is it because I’m young? It’s probably because I’m young. Too young to be a Warden, let alone Warden-Commander, so I have to make it exceedingly obvious.

I guess we all have Duncan to blame for that.

But for all his faults, Duncan was still a good man. A good man who deserved better.

I let out a long, tired sigh at the thought.

Aren’t we all?

By the time I’d managed to cross the street myself, Delilah was on her feet, running to her older brother to embrace him, looking both distinctly pregnant and happier than I’d ever seen her.

 _“Nathaniel!”_ she cried, throwing her arms around him, just as Fergus had done with me after the coronation.

Automatically, I pulled back behind a corner, practically falling against the wall of the house, trying to breathe as a wealth of memories threatened to take over everything else. For a moment, I may as well have been back there.

Focus. Stay in the present. Amaranthine. Warden-Commander. _Focus._

“Delilah,” Nathaniel called her name reassuringly as they broke apart, firmly clasping her shoulders, “you don’t have to stay here. Come back to the keep – we can work something out.”

She just looked at him blankly for a couple of seconds, struggling to process what he was saying. “What? Nathaniel, I can’t _possibly._ My husband-”

“You don’t have to stay with him. You can stay at Vigil’s Keep, we can find someone better-”

 _“Nathaniel,”_ she cut across him sharply. “Listen to me. I’m not leaving.”

“But you-”

“I didn’t marry Albert out of _desperation,_ you moron,” she told him, pulling out his grip before gazing off into the distance, a faint smile pulling at her lips. “I _adore_ him. He’s _so_ much better than that stuck-up Cousland boy that Father kept trying to set me up with.”

Without thinking, I stepped out into view, striding over to them solely because of my own compulsive need to defend myself all the time. How I ever managed to convince myself that I don’t put stake in other people’s opinions of me, I’ll never know.

“Wha- …hey! I’m _right here!”_

For the first time, Delilah seemed to finally notice me. She whirled around to face the source of my protest, staring at the ground before my feet and then, slowly, her eyes travelled up my body until they eventually came to rest on my face. There were a couple of seconds as she struggled to see the eighteen-year-old boy I used to be behind the exhausted expression, the patchy stubble, and the mess of overgrown hair.

People keep telling me that I need to do something about that. The Blight’s over, so I don’t have an excuse to look like a crazy, dishevelled vagabond anymore. Still. I spent almost a full year on the run and old habits die hard. And as much as I don’t want to admit it, I’m running from my past just as much as Delilah is running from hers. 

“Eugene!” she gasped in surprise, her eyes widening as she recognised me. “I- uh… you’re here! You’re in Amaranthine! What a surprise!”

“And we’re not married!” I pointed out cheerfully. _“Bonus!”_

Almost the instant the words were out of my mouth, I winced. Barely been here a couple of minutes and already I’m naturally defaulting back to seventeen. Is this just some kind of coping mechanism? Do I simply not know how to act around people who knew me beforehand? Is this what I’m going to end up being like if I ever manage to bring myself to return to Highever? Am I just going to act like I haven’t changed? Like _nothing’s_ changed? Is that how I deal with trauma now?

Maybe part of me is just too afraid to change. Maybe part of me is so desperate to go back to the way everything used to be that I’ll do anything to maintain the illusion that it’s possible for me to go back, to be the person I was back then. Maybe I’m just so frightened and repulsed by the person I’ve become that I’ll do anything to pretend it isn’t the truth. At this point, anything’s possible.

Delilah coughed awkwardly and glanced away. I get the feeling I’m quite possibly the absolute last person she wanted to see. Which wouldn’t surprise me, for a number of reasons. Nathaniel glanced from me to Delilah and back again several times, clearly at a loss.

I don’t think either of them knew what to say.

I certainly didn’t.

“You’re a Grey Warden?” Delilah asked somewhat haltingly, eyebrows raised as she looked me up and down, doing nothing to keep the shock out of her voice.

“So I am,” I agreed quietly, before nodding at Nathaniel. “As is your brother.”

Immediately, she went dead still, looking from me to Nathaniel and back again several times. Obviously, she hadn’t expected that. I couldn’t blame her. Nathaniel hadn’t been a Warden for very long, and wasn’t Warden-Commander. He wasn’t obligated to wear the uniform. Not yet, anyway.

Slowly, Delilah seemed to accept this news. “I- …of course you are.”

Nathaniel’s expression hardened. “Only because _he_ conscripted me.”

I smiled sweetly at him, but didn’t say anything. We both know I had full sanction to do much worse. And I would have. I was _so close_ to being cold and ruthless, and doing something reprehensible. Part of me wishes I had; I wouldn’t be dealing with this. Shows me for having a conscience.

I might not _be_ my father, but I’m too much like him for my own good.

“You’re really not coming back to the keep?” Nathaniel asked, returning his attention to his sister.

Delilah’s expression hardened. “If I never set foot in that accursed place again, I will die a happy woman. I didn’t spend all this time trying to get away from Father’s evil just to go crawling back.”

“Father’s _evil?”_ Nathaniel repeated, not quite sure how to handle what he was hearing. “Isn’t that a little harsh? He- he got caught up in politics. Did what he had to do. The Blight-”

“You weren’t _here,”_ she cut across him sharply. “You didn’t see what he did. Just ask Eugene what he did to the Couslands.”

I sighed and looked away. “Somehow, I don’t think he’ll take my word for it.”

Delilah arched an eyebrow at me, mildly put off by how easy going I was being, given the situation. Or maybe recognising that I was trying way too hard to be relaxed and easy going; and that this is probably the only way I know how to deal with anything anymore.

“Nathaniel,” she called his name slowly, her eyes turning sad as they flicked up at his face. “Trust me. He got what he deserved.”

“How can you _say_ that?” he demanded. “Father wasn’t perfect, but he wasn’t a _monster._ He wouldn’t have done anything he didn’t think was right.”

“Nathaniel. _Trust. Me,”_ she repeated, slowly and a little sternly this time, carefully framing each word. “You want to know who ruined our family? It was _Father._ Without question.”

For the longest time, Nathaniel didn’t reply. He remained stock still, lips parted slightly in shock, struggling to process her words. I sighed quietly and leaned against the exterior wall of the house, not sure what else to do. There wasn’t really anything I _could_ do, not at that point. Hearing it from me, it’d been easy for him to discredit it to himself, to accuse me of lying. Of course I would lie; make up some excuse to justify my actions. I’m the bastard who murdered his father. But _Delilah?_

She wouldn’t lie. Not about something like this.

And I think Nathaniel knew it.

“Maker, look at you,” Delilah sighed exasperatedly. “Barely back from the Free Marches and you’ve already joined the Wardens. Is so much for me to ask for you at least _contact_ me before you do anything so drastic next time?”

Nathaniel didn’t reply. He looked distant, not altogether there, his mind probably a thousand miles away. Seeing how close her brother seemed to be to a full out existential crisis, Delilah softened considerably. Gently, she took his hand, and gave a him a reassuring smile.

“How about you come inside,” she suggested carefully. “And we can catch up on everything.”

Nathaniel didn’t seem to respond – not at first, anyway – as I suddenly became overwhelmed with the feeling that I shouldn’t be here.

“I’ll… I’ll be going, then,” I murmured, slowly moving to turn around, back towards the keep.

“No,” Delilah called sharply, stopping me in my tracks. “Absolutely not. Stay. I insist.”

Nathaniel looked over at me, looking less keen on the idea than I was – an achievement, to be sure.

“Delilah, he’s…” he began, only to trail off uselessly into silence.

“Busy,” I finished for him lamely.

Quickly, he nodded. “Yes. He’s busy. He’s the Warden-Commander, after all. There are things for him to manage, back at the keep.”

I nodded fervently. “Exactly. There are things to do. Righteous Grey-Wardening. And all that.”

Maker. Why not just say _we have to face the possibility of further darkspawn incursions?_ Why not just admit to the general public _oh hey, we’ve discovered that darkspawn are potentially sentient?_

It may have convinced her to spare me from this.

It also would’ve likely sent the entire city of Amaranthine into a blind panic.

Right now, it’s almost worth it.

Delilah, however, folded her arms and looking distinctly unimpressed. “Alright, _Ser Warden-Commander,_ tell me this. Will the world come to an end if you don’t return immediately?”

For a time, there was silence.

A thoroughly awkward silence as neither me nor Nathaniel answered her.

“Then I suppose that settles it,” she said triumphantly, going to the front door of her house and wrenching it open, holding it there and gesturing for both of us go to inside with her spare hand. Nathaniel let out a long, tired sigh, but obliged. I remained exactly where I was, rooted to the spot, even as Delilah glared at me. Usually that would be enough to eat away at my resolve. But not this time.

Slowly, I looked over to her. “You… don’t want to have that conversation in front of me.”

“I don’t remember asking your opinion,” she shot back at me smoothly. “The instant I turn around you’ll scurry off. Don’t think I’m not onto you. You might be Warden-Commander, Eugene Cousland, but you haven’t changed.”

I sighed quietly, and held my hand to my heart. “I swear on my honour as one of the last surviving members of House Cousland, I will not leave the premises until any and all business here is concluded. Is that enough?”

 _You’re the last of nothing,_ Rendon Howe’s voice reminded me snidely.

Breathe.

_This is pointless._

Just breathe.

_You’ve lost._

For what felt like an eternity, she just watched me suspiciously, not sure what to make of me. Then, eventually, she slowly drifted inside, her eyes never leaving mine as she did so.

“You,” she said, pointing directly at me so there could be no mistake as to who she was referring to. “Stay. Right. _There.”_

I help up my hands defensively and nodded. She gave me one last parting glance before disappearing inside and letting the door shut behind her.

And then I was on my own.

With a small groan, I half collapsed against the wall, slowly sliding down to the ground, pulling my knees to my chest as I did so. Suddenly, the stress of the last few days caught up with me and I was exhausted. I probably could’ve slept outside in front of Delilah’s front door if I wanted to.

What a sight that would make. The Warden-Commander of Ferelden, in full armour, casually napping just outside someone’s house. I’m sure the people of this city would have a field day. If they aren’t already by the fact that I’m here at all.

I should leave. Now. Right now.

I should get out of here and slink back to the keep and worry about Delilah’s sinking opinion of me later.

But I can’t.

Because I just _had_ to promise. I just _had_ to be that person who makes promises that I’ll end up being forced to keep. Damn me and my growing sense of morality and honour. I never used to care. Why do I care now? What changed?

I sighed as I leaned back until my head hit the wall. I don’t want to think about this right now. I can’t. So instead, I returned to aimlessly staring out at the street before me, eyes trailing over the countless passers-by. I couldn’t help but wonder about them. About who they were. About their families. About the countless stories and lives playing out right in front of me. I wonder what their lives were like under Rendon Howe. I wonder if they think I’m any kind of improvement.

Anxiously, I glanced back towards the looming silhouette of Vigil’s Keep, not sure what to think. I remember the first time I saw it – eleven, maybe twelve years ago now? It was the first time I’d left Highever. I’d been overexcited, keen to go exploring far and wide, only for my father to firmly grasp my hand and never let go.

 _Next time,_ he’d told me gently when I complained. _When you’re well._

Next time didn’t happen for something like another five years – and he hadn’t let me go out on my own that time, either. The closest I ever got to not being constantly supervised was when Delilah, at the strong urging of her parents, no doubt, gave the most half-hearted tour anyone has ever given of the grounds, dully listing off memorised facts while constantly trying to size me up. As a person. As another child her age. As a – at that point, at least – future spouse.

It’s weird to see her now. To suddenly find her here in Amaranthine, happily married with a baby on the way. For as long as I can care to remember, people have been telling me that we’ll be married. For as long as I’ve known her, she’s been my future wife. I never wanted to get married to start with, but part of me can’t help but still see her that way.

Force of habit, I guess.

I shook my head slightly. Stop thinking about it like that. She’s married and pregnant, and it’s not like I don’t have the prospect of an unborn child of my own to worry about.

An unborn child with the soul of an Old God.

A child I’ll never know.

A son?

A daughter?

Some tentacled, demonic creature, full of rage and wreathed in flame?

I don’t know. Am I supposed to just forget about it? How are you supposed to just forget about _fathering a child?_ How do you stop caring about something like that? How do I ignore the guilt that’s quickly eating me alive?

Needless to say; having sex with an apostate witch as part of some magic ritual in a final and desperate attempt to save my own damn life wasn’t precisely how I imagined my journey to parenthood would go.

Why? Why couldn’t I just settle down with a nice girl who _isn’t_ an apostate and have a distinctly _non-magical_ child with a _normal human soul?_ Fergus managed to do it. Why can’t I? Why am I so utterly _incapable_ of doing _anything_ normal? Why, why, _why_ is this happening to me? After everything I’ve done, _why_ am I _surprised?_ This is just the Maker punishing me for what I’ve done, isn’t it? I was a coward. I ran. I ran and I left my family to die and then when I was finally given a chance to properly redeem myself for that, to fight and die saving the entire damn world, and I ran from that, too. I didn’t want to lay down and die like I should’ve and now I’m paying for it.

I glanced up at the gradually darkening sky, searching the clouds aimlessly. Searching for something I wasn’t even sure was there anymore.

It shouldn’t bother me. Not as much as it does, at any rate. I never put a huge stake in religion before the Blight – it was more an assumed part of my upbringing than anything else. Now…

Now it means more. Because this is all so chaotic and nonsensical and I _need_ a reason. I _need_ to know that there’s order in the chaos. That someone has it under control. That the world is like this because it’s meant to be this way.

A wry smile pulled at my lips as the thought crossed my mind. If Mallol could see me now…

I could almost see it. She’d get that huge smile and she’d pull me to a seat and encourage me to talk it out while she simply sat and listened. And I’d probably get irritated with her bizarrely cavalier attitude considering she’s a _chantry mother_ and she’s watching someone have a _crisis of faith_ until she eventually came out with that classic line; _faith without doubt is hardly faith at all._ And by the time I managed to drag myself away, I wouldn’t be able to tell if I was feeling better or worse. Which would’ve been news that utterly delighted her, because it more than likely meant I’d be frequenting the castle’s small chantry more often as I struggled to work through whatever I was dealing with.

She cared. She always cared so damn much. They all did.

I need to go back there. One day. Sooner or later. I can’t just leave Fergus to pick up the pieces while I hide away here in Amaranthine, hiding behind the title of Warden-Commander and pretending I’m not a Cousland anymore.

“Hey.”

I twisted around at the sound of Delilah’s voice, to find her standing there with a couple of bowls of steaming… something. Stew, probably. Although I think I’ve had every possible iteration of the recipe – it was the only thing I had any idea of how to make, Alistair insisted his cooking would kill us, and neither of us felt safe with Morrigan anywhere near anything we’d eventually end up eating. Meanwhile, Sten would glare at anyone who made the suggestion, Leliana tried too hard to make something exotic, Wynne would politely grumble about having to look after such useless young people, Zevran would over-spice any food he came into contact with, Shale was literally made of rock and thus didn’t eat, and no one trusts Oghren to refrain from spiking everything he touches. I still don’t.

I sighed a little as I thought about it. They’re not all gone. Not everything is gone.

I just have to keep reminding myself of that.

For a moment, neither of Delilah or I moved, just watched each other warily, almost in the way we used to back when we were trying to size each other up as future spouses.

“Hey,” I replied a little hoarsely, surprised to see her there.

Silently, she offered one to me and I gingerly took it, nodding slightly. Slowly, quietly, she settled down next to me and let out a huge sigh as she stared off at the horizon, looking distant.

I glanced at her, waiting. I don’t know what for, exactly. For one of us to break the silence, I suppose. Slowly, I began to prod absently at my food, not quite sure what to make of it. It looked more appetising than anything I’ve eaten this past year, almost – but that’s not a high bar.

It wasn’t the food, I decided finally. I just wasn’t hungry.

“How’s he taking it?” I asked quietly, unable to take the silence anymore.

Delilah let out a quiet sigh and rolled her shoulders back. “Not well. But I suppose that was to be expected.”

I nodded a little and looked back out at the street. “Can’t be an easy thing to find out.”

I don’t know why I was trying to be so understanding now, of all times. I’d spent the past few days angrily sniping with Nathaniel; it had gotten to the point even Anders didn’t want to hang around when the two of us started up. Our arguments were annoying and predictable. I wasn’t going to pretend otherwise. Eventually they would always devolve into _you killed my father_ and _your father killed my family_ and every possible variation of that. Yesterday we managed to graduate to a moody silence, with nothing but a few terse words exchanged every so-often.

So, the fact that I’m genuinely worried about Nathaniel’s wellbeing is surprising. To me most of all.

“What about you?” Delilah asked suddenly, after a pause. “Are you okay?”

Automatically, my lips cracked into a wide – and entirely fake – grin. “Me? Yeah. Sure. I’m great. Swell.”

Her eyes narrowed at my deflection, obviously not buying it for a second. I honestly didn’t expect her to. I haven’t been able to convince anyone of that lie since the attack on Highever.

“Don’t do that, Eugene.”

“Do what?”

 _“That,”_ she told me, pointedly gesturing at my face. “Pretending you’re fine when you’re not.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

She pulled a face at that. _“Eugene.”_

I pinched the bridge of my nose and sighed loudly. “Don’t you already have a brother whose mental wellbeing you have to worry about? Why add mine to the list?”

“Because I know what happened to your family,” she replied simply.

“I’m pretty sure all _Ferelden_ knows what happened to my family,” I pointed out sourly.

She didn’t seem to have anything to say to that. I tried not to breathe a sigh of relief. This is why I don’t want to go back to Highever. This is why I don’t want to be around people who knew me beforehand. Everyone who was with me during the Blight only met me afterwards. They didn’t know what I was like before. No one bothered to bring it up. With the Howes, people I effectively grew up beside, I don’t get that luxury.

“I’m sorry.”

I grunted incoherently and turned away just slightly.

“I… can’t imagine what it must’ve been like,” Delilah continued, either not seeing or outright ignoring my clear unwillingness to engage in this conversation. “But I want you to know that I _am_ sorry. For you and Fergus.”

I closed my eyes and let out a small exhale. “Yeah, well. It’s in the past.”

“And I wanted to thank you.”

My eyes snapped open and I twisted around just to stare at her, arching an eyebrow incredulously. “What for?”

“For Nathaniel. For sparing his life,” she answered. “In your place… I doubt he would have done the same.”

For a moment, I didn’t answer. I didn’t want to admit just how close I’d come to doing something else. Didn’t want to tell her that there had been a moment where I’d been tossing up the idea between letting him slowly starve to death in a cell or killing him outright. Didn’t want her to know that I’d basically conscripted him so I could use the Joining as a glorified execution.

And then he survived.

Because _of course_ he did.

“That…” I began awkwardly, struggling to work out how to word myself. “Wasn’t exactly _sparing_ him, Delilah. I mean, being a Warden, it’s…”

She watched me carefully.

“It’s…?” she prompted.

Not a second chance.

Not something you can really call _living._

Not something I can talk about in detail to anyone who hasn’t been through the Joining themselves.

“Complicated,” I finished lamely.

“All the same,” she sighed. “I lost one brother in the Blight. I wouldn’t have fancied losing another so soon.”

 _Thomas,_ I realised after too long. I didn’t know. I didn’t even _think-_

“You lost a father too,” I pointed out, trying not to dwell on it. On any of it. “To that stuck-up Cousland boy, no less.”

Her jaw tightened and her spare hand clenched into a tight fist. “After everything he did, all the vile atrocities he committed… honestly, it was a relief to hear he was dead.”

It shouldn’t have surprised me to hear her say that.

And yet.

I killed her father in cold blood and she’s the one apologising to me. There’s something inherently wrong with that, just as a situation. I don’t know what else I expected, though. She was here, unlike Nathaniel. She watched it all happen. She saw everything her father did and she drove herself into hiding, cutting off all ties with her former life because of it. Can I honestly say that, in her place, I wouldn’t have done the same?

A shiver went up my spine as, once again, I was met with countless memories of that day, in the Arl of Denerim’s estate.

_Your father would be proud._

_Don’t talk about my father,_ I’d snarled, my grip around his neck tightening a little. Just enough so he couldn’t breathe very well. _Don’t act like you even deserve to say his name._

And then I’d thrust him against the wall, restraining myself just long enough to ask the burning question that had haunted me since it all happened.

_Why? Tell me why!_

“It’s funny,” I began slowly, desperate to change the subject to something, _anything,_ else. “If things had been different… we’d probably be married by now.”

Delilah’s lip curled at that, and she didn’t grace me with an answer. I laughed and held my hand over my heart, my face twisting into an expression of mock-hurt.

“Am I really _that_ bad?”

She sighed and rolled her shoulders back. “Don’t pretend for even a moment that you were overly keen on the match yourself, Eugene Cousland.”

I smiled. “True. Looks like we both narrowly avoided disaster.”

“Can you _imagine,_ though? Living together, me sitting at home and sewing while you… do whatever the younger sons of teyrns do?”

I laughed. “We’d be living the cushy noble life, all the while constantly sniping at each other over which of us has more reason to be miserable.”

“I’d have spent all my time complaining to Oriana. We’d bond over our mutual annoyance with our idiot Cousland husbands.”

A shudder went up my spine. “She’d have shown you how to make poisons, too. Then you would’ve assassinated me – Maker, think of the _children,_ Delilah! How could you so coldly take their father from them?”

“I’m sure they’ll manage,” she told me airily. “Their _father_ probably never took the time to know them. Father’s dead, children. _What father,_ they’ll say.”

I laughed, but it was quiet and strangled and I very quickly shifted away from her slightly. Trying not to think about just how true that assessment was and failing miserably. We fell into silence as Delilah watched me, taken aback by my reaction and not quite sure how to proceed. Eventually, I felt her hand gently clasp my shoulder.

“Eugene?” she called softly. “I was joking. Are you alright?”

“Yeah,” I murmured. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

“You don’t _seem_ fine.”

“It’s… complicated.”

“We’ve got all night,” she responded casually.

I groaned. “Look, it’s not- …it’s nothing. It’s not important.”

Just one more thing to feel guilty about.

Shouldn’t have brought it up. _Why_ did I bring it up? Now I’ll have to talk about it. What’s she going to think? What is _anyone_ going to think? What do I do? Who do I tell? Or do I swear myself to secrecy? Just not tell anyone about what happened? Shouldn’t people know?

Know _what,_ Eugene? That you slept with an apostate to conceive a monster because you were too _damn afraid_ to face your own mortality? Who wants to know that? _No one_ wants to know that!

I winced.

One good thing. That’s all I want. Just _one good thing_ that I’ve contributed to the world.

Delilah, bless her, took note of how cagey I was being about it and decided not to press the subject.

“Well,” she said, stretching a little. “You’ve certainly changed. You used to be such an _asshole.”_

“And now?” I asked, noting her use of past-tense.

Maybe I should’ve tried harder to defend myself, but she _was_ right. I wasn’t going to try to argue the point, when I knew it was true.

“You’re a slightly more mature asshole,” she answered smoothly, without missing a beat, before her expression darkened somewhat. “I suppose Blight does that to a person.”

“Among other things,” I whispered, my voice growing cracked and hoarse as I was suddenly thrown back to the night Highever was attacked.

The last day.

“I’m sorry,” she told me. “About everything. I truly am.”

I didn’t meet her gaze. It’s not her fault. It’s not _Nathaniel’s_ fault, either. I need to accept that. I need to stop looking for people to blame. I _know_ that. But knowing you should let go of the past and actually doing it are two very different things. Still. She’d forgiven me for murdering her father – it was nothing short of stupid that I struggled to forgive _her_ for being related to him. I know the absurdity of it. I know it’s idiotic and pointless and I’m not helping anything or anyone, least of all myself, by holding onto it so tightly.

“It’s not your fault,” I murmured after way too long. “It was _never_ your fault, Delilah. The man responsible is dead. That’s all I can ask.”

She didn’t move. She didn’t say anything, either. Like she was taken aback by my words, and didn’t know how to respond.

And then;

“You’re still upset.”

It wasn’t a question.

I looked away. “I’ll get over it.”

Behind us, the door creaked open, and Nathaniel stepped outside, holding his hand up in front of his face in an effort to shield his eyes from glare of the sunset. Quickly, both Delilah and I twisted around to face him. My eyes darted up and down his frame, trying to see what he was doing, how he was reacting. Slowly, I stood up, dusting myself off a little as Delilah followed suit.

“Are you leaving?” she asked him quietly.

Nathaniel looked over at me, as if for reassurance. “I- yes. We should… we have business to attend to.”

“You’re sure?”

“He’s right,” I cut in quietly. “We should get going.”

Delilah let out a sigh, but didn’t argue the point. She’s smart. She knows when she’s being faced with a fight she’s going to lose. Instead, she wrapped her arms around her older brother and drew him in for a tight hug. Nathaniel, obviously not prepared for it, let out a startled gasp and didn’t move.

I laughed. I couldn’t help it. And over Delilah’s shoulder, Nathaniel threw me a dirty look. Which just made me laugh more.

Slightly more mature asshole.

I think I might just be okay with that.

Delilah didn’t take note of any of the exchange.

“Stay in touch,” she told him softly, as she withdrew from the embrace. “Please, Nathaniel. The baby’s due in the spring; and you should meet Albert. I think you’ll like him.”

The corners of Nathaniel’s lips twitched with an uneasy smile. “I… yes. Of course I will.”

And with that, he turned to go, joining me as we began to move away.

“You keep him safe Eugene,” I could hear Delilah call after me.

I turned on my heels and gave her a mock salute, walking backwards as I did. “On my honour.”

She laughed and shook her head and headed inside, while I turned back around and kept walking up the street, back towards the keep with Nathaniel.

I still don’t remember why we came into Amaranthine in the first place, I realised. And whatever it was, I still haven’t done it yet. Maybe it doesn’t matter. Because I needed this. I didn’t know just much I needed it until it happened, but I really, _really_ needed this. I think Nathaniel did, too.

Slowly, I looked over to him, trying to work out why he was being so quiet. He kept his head down and utterly refused to meet my eye. With a small sigh, I reached out and gripped his upper arm, pulling him to a sharp halt. His head snapped up in confusion, his expression silently demanding an explanation.

“Are you okay?” I asked him quietly, not sure what else to say at this point.

He just stared at me like I was completely insane for even asking. I stared right back, waiting for an answer. Eventually, he realised that I wasn’t going to back down, and pulled himself out of my grip.

“I’m fine,” he replied shortly.

He’s not fine.

“Nathaniel.”

“Since when did you care, anyway?”

He is _so not_ fine.

_“Nathaniel.”_

“I just… I can’t believe…” he murmured, running a hand through his hair and trying in vain to calm himself down. “I thought he had his reasons. It was a _war,_ for Andraste’s sake. Before I left, he was never… how could he have changed so much?”

I sighed. “You were gone for eight years. You’d be surprised.”

“But _that_ much?”

“Nathaniel. When you left, I was _eleven,”_ I reminded him. “Am I _anything_ like you remember? Why is it so absurd that your father might’ve changed, too?”

His lip curled slightly as he looked me up and down several times, clearly comparing me to the kid he remembered in his head. I just stood there, motionless, waiting for judgement. Waiting for him to suddenly realise, _my gosh, Eugene, you’re not a bed-ridden kid anymore._ He hasn’t brought that up yet, but I know he will. Eventually. I know it’s on his mind. Every time he looks at me with an odd look, I can see the questions on his mind.

How did you recover?

How did you manage to survive the _Joining?_

They’re fair questions. I wish I had better answers than _magic_ and _I don’t know._

“You were a child,” he pointed out finally. “It’s not the same.”

I groaned, and rolled my shoulders back. “What do you want me to say? Either he drastically changed in a relatively short amount of time, or he _didn’t_ and he was never the man you thought he was. That _any_ of us thought he was.”

He didn’t seem to have anything to say to that, and honestly, I couldn’t blame him. We fell into an awkward silence, and I took it upon myself to start walking again, Nathaniel quickly falling into step beside me. He wasn’t done talking, I knew that. Neither was I. No doubt we’d be having this conversation for days.

At least it’ll be a nice change of pace from the constant arguments, barbs, and sniping.

“When you…” he began haltingly, unsure of himself. “When you, you know…”

“Killed him?” I suggested flatly.

He looked away. “Did he regret it?”

I blinked. “What?”

“Did he regret it?” he repeated. “What he did?”

 _Well, well._ _Bryce Cousland’s little boy; all grown up and still trying to fit into daddy’s armour._

A shiver went up my spine at the thought, and I struggled to ignore it. Ignore him. Ignore everything I did, everything that happened. Ignore the memories that were better left forgotten.

Did he regret it? If he did, he certainly didn’t make that clear to me.

_Maker spit on you. I… deserved… more._

I sighed and looked away. “This… isn’t a conversation you want to have, Nathaniel.”

“Please. I have to know.”

“And if you don’t like the answer?”

He squared his shoulders and said nothing, automatically bracing for it.

“No,” I told him quietly, wincing as my voice cracked. “No, I don’t think he did.”

Why does that hurt to say? Why is it still painful to admit that? Why do I keep thinking about who he used to be – the man I thought he was, the man _my father_ thought he was? On that day, on the last day, he hadn’t been any different. He’d given me the same warm smile he’d always given me when I asked about his family. I’d refused to believe it was him at first, when everything happened. I was reaching desperately, quickly forming insanely complicated conspiracy theories as to why someone would go to such lengths to frame him rather than admit the truth. Because up until then, Rendon Howe had been a good man. I never had any reason to think otherwise.

There’s still a part of me that wants to think that. That isn’t convinced any of this is real. The Blight, the Wardens, Ostagar, the civil war… it was all part of some terrible nightmare I’m yet to wake up from. And when I finally do, I’ll be in my bed in Highever, being harassed by Oren because I promised to teach him what I knew of swordplay. None of this would’ve ever happened and Rendon Howe would still be a good man. The man he was supposed to be. The man I thought he was.

Nathan chewed on his lip, looking a little sick. “I feel like such a _fool.”_

“You’re not the only one,” I sighed. “No one saw it coming. Not even my father – and they’d known each other for decades. If you’re a fool for falling for it, Nathaniel, then we _all_ are.”

“I wanted to kill you, I had no idea…”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Don’t _worry_ about it?” he repeated incredulously. “You _can’t_ be serious.”

I shrugged. “I’m not worried about assassination. Trust me when I say better people than you have tried.”

“How can you be so cavalier?”

I let out a loud groan and stopped in my tracks once more. “Because I’m _tired_ of this, Nathaniel. I’m tired of arguing, of hating people. There’s _generations_ of bad blood between our families and I _can’t_ do it anymore.”

All the rage, hate, and pain – it’s too much effort. Takes up too much energy that’s better off spent on something else.

I am not Rendon Howe.

I will not become the monster he did.

“I killed your father,” I admitted softly. “He killed my family and I murdered him for it; I’m not going to deny that. But I shouldn’t have let it control me. And I shouldn’t have conscripted you like I did. So, I’m asking you now; help me deal with this cesspool of a situation. _Please._ We were almost family once. We could be now. Brothers-in-arms, if not in-law.”

For so long, he just watched me, completely at a loss.

“So,” I began, awkwardly holding out my hand. “Truce?”

He glanced at my outstretched hand, then at my face and back again several times, not quite sure how to react. Then, eventually, he let out an exhausted exhale and clasped my hand.

“Truce,” he agreed quietly.

A small, wry smile played upon my lips. “It will be my honour to fight alongside you, Warden Howe.”


End file.
